


Scars

by ryttu3k



Series: Resilience [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Body Worship, First Time, Genderfluid Character, Injury Recovery, Other, Physical Disability, Scars, Self-Harm, Teen Pregnancy, Trans Male Character, Transitioning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryttu3k/pseuds/ryttu3k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scars tell a story of the life you have lived and the things you have survived. How could they not be beautiful?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

Augustine has his sleeves rolled just a little higher than usual, and that's how it starts.

"How did you get that?" Lysandre asks languidly, reaching out to trace the shiny burn scar near the inside of his elbow. Augustine actually chuckles, tugging the sleeve up a bit higher.

"Oh, that was from my practical unit when I was doing my degree," he laughs. "See, I was holding one of the Fennekins, and, well - she sneezed. And learned to breathe fire at the same time."

Lysandre laughs as well, and Augustine lets a shiver trace down his spine. The sound is rich and smooth like well-brewed coffee, and he hasn't heard Lysandre really laugh before, can't quite say why the sound draws him in so much, knows that he likes it.

With a shake of his head, Lysandre rubs a thumb over it. "It sounds like you've had some adventures," he murmurs.

Augustine grins. "You don't know the half of it." He pulls the collar of his shirt back, hooking two fingers under the binder to show Lysandre the scar tracing his collar bone. "This one was interesting - Artemis had just evolved, and she wasn't really used to her Garchomp size. The poor thing was terribly upset," he adds sadly, "She blamed herself until I told her it was okay."

"Incendie had much the same reaction when he accidentally burned me," Lysandre says with a nod. "Here -" He holds out a hand, the burn scar there much older. "I was only a beginner trainer. I hadn't quite worked out not to pet Litleo on their heads."

Augustine reaches for his hand, holds it in both of his own, thumbs delicately tracing the mark. "But you learned," he murmurs.

"I learned."

Lysandre's gaze is intense. Augustine shrugs, promptly gives up on subtlety, and hauls himself into Lysandre's lap for a rather nice session of making out.

They retreat to the bedroom. It seems more suitable, this way, more formalised - they've been dating for a few weeks but have yet to be intimate yet, and Augustine is achingly aware of Lysandre's gaze on his body as he unbuttons the shirt, revelling in the slow flush brightening his cheekbones as he reveals skin and fabric, and suddenly the binder feels ridiculously constricting as his breath catches.

"What do you think?" he murmurs as he nudges Lysandre back against the pillows, straddling his thighs, his gaze focused on his face as he slowly, seductively pulls the binder over his head.

(Well, that's the aim. The actual result is the fabric tangled around his face and arms, hands flailing above his head. Lysandre laughs aloud, clearly amused, and pokes him in the stomach; Augustine squeaks and nearly topples off Lysandre's lap as he tries to free himself. Lysandre finally takes pity and rescues him; Augustine emerges red-faced and with his hair rumpled to high heavens.)

"Binders really aren't made for stripteases," Augustine huffs once he has his breath back, then sits back on Lysandre's thighs, acutely aware of the blue eyes tracing his form. "Well - what do you think?"

When Lysandre does speak, it's with his voice hushed, almost reverent. "I think you're beautiful," he murmurs, reaching up to brush his fingers, ever so gently, over Augustine's shoulders. "May I touch you?"

"Please." Augustine's voice is breathy, almost catching in his throat, as Lysandre slides his hands down; he feels like he's a sculpture made of glass, transparent for all to see, exposed and desired.

Lysandre's fingertips trace stories across his body, journeys he will take across collarbones and breasts, the curve of his waist, the dip of his navel, coming to rest on his hips.

"Beautiful," Lysandre whispers again, and those big warm hands trace up his spine and tangle in his hair and, well, it's only fair that they do a little more rather enthusiastic kissing after that.

He's flushed when they finally part, cheeks warm and well aware that his hair is probably rumpled and tousled. Still, Augustine has not been idle - Lysandre's own hair is looking rather more dishevelled than he was probably used to, clumps of fire-bright orange sticking up erratically.

He grins at the sight.

"While we're telling stories," Lysandre asks lazily, "May I ask about these?" He traces the stretch marks on Augustine's stomach (forcing him to stifle another laugh - it's ticklish!), clear curiosity in his expression.

Augustine drops his hand to Lysandre's, tracing the marks himself. "Ah, don't think less of me," he says, suddenly self-conscious. It's never been something he was ashamed of, but Lysandre is a new lover, is someone he feels could be more, and if there is judgement in his eyes at Augustine's past, he will want to know now, before he can lose his heart.

"I wasn't quite seventeen," he continues softly, "And a severely depressed genderfluid kid - not that I even knew the word then - desperately trying to pretend to be a 'normal' - what I saw as normal - cis girl. And that, in my mind, meant sleeping around. And, well, I got careless." He shrugs, unwilling to meet Lysandre's gaze.

Lysandre merely nods. "What happened?" he asks, more curiosity than judgement in his voice.

"I went through with it." Augustine shrugs, pressing both hands flat against his stomach, and he can remember the terror of being sixteen and pregnant, everything about his body wrong. "It was a nice adoption, though - they keep me updated. He's twelve now."

There is no judgement in Lysandre's eyes, nothing but a warm sort of light even if his lips aren't quite managing a smile. "You must have been incredibly brave," he says softly. "If I had become pregnant at sixteen, well..."

He doesn't need to continue. Augustine nods hastily, biting his lip once before turning his attention away from his body. "What about you?" he says lightly, "I'm half physically and completely emotionally naked, and you're still fully clothed! It's most unfair, don't you think?"

Lysandre's smile returns, and he lifts his hands from Augustine's body to start unbuttoning his own shirt. "I suppose fair is fair," he muses as he lets the fabric fall from his shoulders, and Augustine is only dimly aware that he's staring. "I expect you like what you see?"

It's not necessarily bravado, Augustine's desire is quite clearly written on his face. "Very much," he murmurs, trailing his fingertips through wiry red hair, his eyes fixed on Lysandre's face to see his reaction as he catches a nipple between finger and thumb. (Lysandre flushes most delightfully, the red washing out his freckles.) "Mm, _very_ much."

"Thank you." Lysandre's voice has quiet pride in it. "I worked hard for it."

Augustine nods, then leans forward in an act of minor contortionism to drop a feather-light kiss on one of the scars. "Did it hurt?" he asks.

Lysandre nods too, his face still pink. "Terribly, at first. I feel it was necessary to go through that pain, though, to get what I wanted." One hand drifts down his own torso. "I have had a vision of myself in my head for... a long time. Surgery was the only way I could think of to make my body match the image in my head, and so I would endure the pain."

"Well, you're beautiful as well," Augustine tells him confidently, gaze still tracing the contours of Lysandre's delightfully masculine body beneath his own. "And you said _I'm_ brave, I doubt I'd go for surgery myself. Besides," he adds with a grin, "I mostly like my body, even with all the weird lumps and bumps."

"You're perfect as you are," Lysandre says, and there's an unexpected fierceness there. "I am still... a work in progress." But his eyes are soft, and he does not look away from Augustine, does not switch his gaze from Augustine's face for a minute even as his hands come to settle more on his hips. "Please, believe me, you are perfect."

"Not that perfect," Augustine says, and there's a smile there but it's sad as well, because he knows he can't really avoid it any more. He slips off Lysandre's lap, sits at the edge of the bed while he unbuckles his belt, pulls off his socks, drags his jeans down his hips, and Lysandre clambers off the bed to kneel in front of him. His eyes are still soft, soft and sad as he rests one hand on Augustine's knee, and he does not reach out to touch the scars that cross his thighs.

Augustine gazes down at them, biting his lip; he doesn't look at Lysandre. "They're ugly, aren't they?" he says, and his voice feels alarmingly wobbly.

Lysandre leans down, very gently, and kisses one.

"I was a teenager for most of them," he explains in a rush, "I mean - well, I told you I was depressed. I had mostly stopped by university... I've only relapsed a few times since then." His hand almost shaking, he traces one of the newer ones. "I haven't cut for a few years. I promise."

"I understand," Lysandre says softly. "I do. I never left scars - just bruises - but in a way I almost wish I had."

"Why in Arceus' name would you want these scars?" Augustine says, suddenly appalled, quite unable to comprehend why Lysandre, Lysandre with his high ideals of beauty and perfection, would want anything like them. "They're ugly, they're damaging -"

"They tell a story. They're marks left on your skin, yes, and maybe aesthetically they're not pretty - but they tell your story." He leans forward, kisses another. "The scars from handling Pokemon - the stretch marks - these. They tell a story of the life you have lived and the things you have survived. You are beautiful, and they are your story, and so they are too."

He lowers his head and proceeds to kiss each and every one. Augustine's eyes smart with tears; he runs his fingers through Lysandre's hair, bends down and kisses fiery locks, feels his thighs trembling beneath Lysandre's hands and lips as he anoints each one with forgiveness and understanding, lets himself feel - for once - beautiful, perfect in Lysandre's eyes.

When Lysandre finally looks up, he manages a smile. "I told you you were beautiful," he murmurs, then reaches out to brush the tips of his fingers between Augustine's legs, tugging gently on damp fabric. Augustine's breath catches in his throat. "Will you let me adore you?"

Augustine lets out a laugh, shaky and sad and delighted, because what can he say to that? And he pulls bravado back over like a shield, leaning back on his elbows and spreading his legs, letting a grin cross his face.

"Do your worst," he suggests impishly, and Lysandre smiles and proceeds to do just that.

 

He can't breathe.

Lysandre is alive, alive but shattered, alive but broken, dug out from the ruins of Geosenge and hooked up to monitors and IVs. He has done something terrible and Augustine already knows that he will forgive him, that he will now get the help he needs, that justice will be served but will never forget the damaged man who acted in such a way.

Oh, it will take time. It will take time and effort, it will hurt and it will seem futile at times, they will feel like giving up and feel like Geosenge should have finished the job. It will not be pretty.

But they will make it. Augustine believes this.

He sits at Lysandre's side, holding the hand that's not swathed in bandages, stroking the skin between the abrasions and bruises. Earlier, Lysandre was awake - drugged and barely lucid, admittedly, but awake enough for Augustine to tell him he'll still be there when he wakes. And now he waits, waits for him to come out of a healing sleep.

He does not look at Lysandre's face. He does not look at the bandages that cover that flame-orange hair, protecting his broken skull, far too aware how close Lysandre came to death.

His gaze is fixed on the end of the bed, where the sheets fall short of where they would be expected, draped over Lysandre's legs, ending at the ankle on one leg and above the knee on the other.

Beauty and perfection, perfection and beauty. Lysandre had worked so hard to make his body his own.

"It's ugly, isn't it?"

Lysandre's voice is scratchy and rough; he has slept for a long time. Augustine switches his gaze to the hand he's holding.

"Your legs?"

"Everything." Lysandre exhales raggedly. "Everything I did. I sought to make the world beautiful and instead took the ugliest possible actions. And when it failed, I tried to die and take down innocents with me. I can never be forgiven for this."

Augustine is already shaking his head. "Serena came by earlier, when you were still sleeping. She said she understood. She sends her best wishes and hopes that you will recover quickly."

Recover his health, recover sense and stability. It doesn't matter which, he needs both.

"Serena..." Lysandre shakes his head. "She is an amazing child. If it wasn't for her, if it wasn't for Shauna and your son, none of us would be here. They stopped me and I will never stop being in their debt."

Augustine manages to crack a smile. "Well, you could probably give them all a lifetime of free service at the cafe," he jokes feebly. "Shauna likes hot chocolate, Serena prefers tea, and Calem is already on to coffee. He's definitely mine, no?"

Lysandre forces a smile to his lips, too. "He said that we could all work together to form a beautiful world. He definitely has your compassion."

Augustine just squeezes Lysandre's hand once, because really, what can he say to that? He's proud of Calem, proud of all of them - they took on burdens far beyond what their ages would dictate and came out of it okay, and the end result is Lysandre in this bed, Lysandre with all his injuries, Lysandre alive but broken.

"What happens next?" Lysandre finally says, and there's so much exhaustion in his voice that Augustine almost wants to weep from it. "Legally, I know what will happen - I have been instructed to plead guilty but mentally ill. They have diagnosed me with bipolar disorder. I will likely be institutionalised for a time... at least until they believe I am safe to join the public again. It may be some time." With the bandaged hand, he brushes invisible lint off the sheets, his voice faraway, lost, hurt. "What I mean by not knowing what to happen next is... if - if you wish to end our relationship, I do not want to burden -"

"No." Augustine says it so swiftly, so instantly, that his decision is made before he even registers the question. "No. I love you and I'm not leaving you." He squeezes Lysandre's hand, takes a breath, and finally looks up into his eyes.

They're still Lysandre's eyes. Still fathomless blue, still beautiful, still him. It's still him.

"I love you too," Lysandre says, and it's like a promise even as those blue eyes fill with tears. "I just do not understand why you wish to stay with someone who has done such ugly things. I will forever be marked by this - not just physically, but it has scarred my mind and my soul. I cannot force you to stay, not when you will see a reminder of what I did every time you look at me."

Augustine laughs and reaches for his hand, holds it in both of his own, thumbs delicately tracing old scars and new wounds, lets his gaze take in Lysandre, all of him in all his faults.

"Around five years ago," he says quietly, "A wise man told me that scars tell a story. They may be marks left on your skin or on your mind or on your soul, and maybe aesthetically they're not pretty. But they tell a story. They tell a story of the life you've lived and everything you've survived."

He leans forward and kisses Lysandre, gently, comfortably, because now he has an answer.

"You're beautiful. And they tell your story and show that you survived, and that you're stronger than your past. You'll survive this, move past it, and come out the stronger for it. And, well." There are tears brimming in his own eyes, and he reaches out to brush the tears off Lysandre's cheeks. "They're a part of you and everything you've survived. So how could they not be beautiful?"

They'll survive. They'll be okay. They're scarred, the both of them, and nothing will change that, nothing will unwrite the stories written on their skin, and that's alright.

They'll be alright.


End file.
